


In the Interim

by inbetweenfractals



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-02-17 06:45:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2300261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inbetweenfractals/pseuds/inbetweenfractals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the long three months since he left the Order, Allen walks forward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Interim

He doesn’t step out the door; rather, he falls through it. He lands hard on his knees and palms. He skids, falls again, jarring the shoulder he lands on. Pushing up to his knees, he rubs his left arm halfheartedly to restore feeling. The Innocence is cold under his finger. He tries to stretch his Innocence arm, but it is stiff and doesn’t respond very well.

He stands and regards the door. It is tall and glowing white; frankly, it doesn’t look much like a door at all. And to close it…

He touches two fingertips to his forehead and brings the score up in his mind. A short pause. Music.

He opens his eyes and smiles. “Well, at least that works,” he says.

He turns away from where the door once was. There’s a cottage up a little ways. He begins to walk forward, realizes he is stumbling, and is acutely aware that he is dizzy with hunger and exhaustion. It’s been a long day.

Despite the snow, he can feel sweat roll down his neck. A golden golem follows, hovering worriedly.

And even though some part of him wants to wail that he’s tired, he’s hungry, he wants to curl up and sleep, he feels like _crap_ , that just isn’t what he does. He never does that. He continues to struggle forward because that it what he does.

It feels like a century has passed before he makes it to the door – could’ve been a century for all he knows, he feels bad and his vision is going hazy and he just can’t really bring himself to care at this moment.

He rings the doorbell.

He can hear a scuffle inside. Voices. A large man opens the door. They both blink, surprised.

_Why is Baba wearing a clown outfit?_

Baba twists back to shout into the house, “Mother! When you speak of the devil, he appears!”

Before the boy can bring himself to wonder about _that_ statement, a wizened old woman appears. She opens her hands towards him.

“Allen Walker,” she says.

He replies, “Yes.”

There is a helpless smile on his face as he loses whatever grip he had on the universe and slips into unconsciousness.

 

He wakes. The sunlight is very bright and he squints, trying to resolve the world around him.

“Finally awake, are you?”

“Good morning, Mother,” Allen says. He pushes himself up so that he’s sitting. Sheets crinkle around him. Oh, someone changed his clothes. Probably Baba.

“Good afternoon,” Mother corrects, raising her eyebrows.

“Oh.” Allen rubs his left arm. There’s a pins-and-needles feeling to it now and though it is uncomfortable, he takes it as an improvement over no feeling at all. They sit in silence for a minute, Allen massaging feeling back into his limb, Mother watching silently.

The silence ends when Allen’s stomach growls. Mother laughs a laugh like a rusty door hinge. “There’s a pot of stew on the stove. I trust you can make it to the kitchen table?”

“Of course.”

She snorts and leaves.

As he stands, shaky but mostly steady, he wonders when he last ate. His stomach curls in on itself when he realizes that he doesn’t know.

Allen ducks his head as he sits at the kitchen table. “Sorry to impose,” he says. He knows he is being painfully, achingly polite, but he isn’t sure what to do with himself otherwise. It’s easy to fall back on, politeness is, and he feels safer that way.

Besides, he hasn’t seen her in a long time – years – so he shouldn’t act too familiar. _That’s normal_ , he thinks. He takes a moment to think about it, but he’s pretty sure.

He doesn’t catch Mother muttering, “Just like Mana still, I see.”

She plops a large bowl of stew in front of him and it startles him back into reality. He accepts a spoon, thanks her, and begins to eat. It’s good, but he doesn’t really notice the taste.

 

It’s a day later when he asks her if she knows anything about the Fourteenth. Mother spears him with a glare, her eyes red-rimmed. She had heard the news of Cross’s death that morning.

“So you know that much,” Mother grumbles. After a moment more of glaring – and now he thinks that maybe it is sharp-eyed scrutiny – something shifts and she says, “I’ll tell you this only once because if you forget it, you probably won’t be ‘Allen Walker’ any more. I’m a supporter of Cross, not the Fourteenth. The less I know about the Fourteenth, the happier I’ll be.

“I’m sure that, if you know about the Fourteenth, Cross told you.”

Allen nods. “Yes. He told me that I’m the host, that the Fourteenth’s brother was Mana, and that when I become the Fourteenth, I’ll – ” His voice trails away from a moment, but after a moment he continues, “I’ll kill someone I love.”

Mother’s gaze softens. “Yes, that’s difficult, isn’t it?”

He says nothing. They are quiet, as if observing a moment of silence. Mother raises her head a little. “As long as you are Cross’s apprentice,” she tells him, “I will support you. I don’t know anything more about the Fourteenth, so I can’t give you information, but I can support you otherwise.”

“Are?”

“You can’t tell if that man is dead until you’ve found the body. Even then, he’s probably just run off somewhere.”

“I always told them the man’s a genuine demon,” Allen mutters.

The comment startles a laugh out of her. So _this_ is the impertinent little brat she never met!

 

He kills the akuma quickly, easily.

But not quite easily enough.

“I gotta get back into the habit of morning exercise. I haven’t done it the last couple weeks, and it _shows_. Darn it!”

 

Allen ties his hair into a high ponytail and tucks it into the cap. “There,” he says to Timcanpy. “Looks a little less suspicious than a hood, right?”

Timcanpy launches itself off Allen’s shoulder and flies in circles around his head. Allen takes it as a yes and smiles.

He is going to go through a few bars and brothels today to see if he can find some of Cross’s supporters. They might have more information about the Fourteenth than Mother did.

 

Later that night, he opens the door to his hotel room. He stands in the doorway for a moment, swaying. Too many bar owners refused to part with any information about Cross unless Allen bought a drink.

At least the brothels didn’t have a similar policy.

Allen shuts and locks the door, stumbles forward, and flops on the bed. “The problem is,” he grumbles to Timcanpy in an angry voice uncharacteristic to Allen. “The _goddamn problem_ is that my idiot master has gone to so many whorehouses and bars that it’s pretty much impossible to sift through all of them!”

He falls asleep, muttering about idiotic masters and jackass money-pinching bartenders.

 

Allen blinks blearily at the morning sunlight and vows to never get drunk again. He also wonders where his cap went.

 

It’s a sunny day when a girl with short dark hair visits the market. Allen gulps and hides behind a crate of tomatoes. _Lenalee?!_

But when she turns around, he sees that her eyes are lighter than Lenalee’s ever were.

Allen shakes his head at himself. He stands up and continues to shop for groceries. What he has now would a feed a couple people, but it’s not yet enough for dinner tonight.

Ten minutes later, when he sees the redhead with a bandana, the cycle repeats.

 

The large man’s lips are twitching upward. It’s nearly a smirk worthy of Kanda. Muscles bulge as he pushes a large stack of coins to the center.  Other men shake their heads ruefully and lay their cards down. The word “fold” rings around the table.

Allen smiles and matches the bet.

 

 _It’s a good thing I’ve learned to run fast_ , he thinks. _Otherwise I might be dead._

Timcanpy follows. The shouts follow as well. So does the sound of wood crunching and cracking. Glass shatters in their wake.

 

The alleys are dark as Allen runs through them, Timcanpy always matching his pace. Yesterday it was angry gamblers; today it’s Apocrapper.

Allen wonders if it’s bad that he just feels irritated. Of course his Innocence had to act up just as he was in the middle of a meal of pastries and coffee. Of course. So he dropped a coin as tip and ran.

He can tell that he’s reaching the edge of town by the state of the buildings. They are newer, but they are also the industrial slums. The alleys have become increasingly cramped and filled with debris. Allen nearly trips over a bundle of rags and shouts “Sorry!” when he realizes that the rags are actually an old woman.

He breaks free of the buildings and sees a cart-driver on his way out of town. Allen waves an arm and the man waves back.

“Hey!” Allen shouts. “Please stop!”

The cart-driver does. “Yeah?”

“May I catch a ride?”

The driver looks dubious. Allen thinks that his disheveled appearance makes him look suspicious. The white hair and scar probably don’t help either. “I’ll pay,” he says, fishing out his wallet.

The driver breaks into a wide grin.

 

The akuma follow him. He is Noah. He is pied piper to the flies.

 

Allen goes through another night of brothels and bars in his search for Cross and/or Cross’s supporters. Timcanpy has been unable to help; ever since Cross’s supposed death, he hasn’t been able to track his former master. Allen wonders if this is because he is Timcanpy’s master now.

He snaps out of his thoughts as a woman takes hold of his arm and presses her breasts against him. She smiles when she sees his face begin to turn red. “What’s a little boy like you doing out in a place like this at this hour of night?”

Allen falls back on an easy defense: he smiles at her. “I’m looking for someone.”

She presses closer. “I’ll be that someone – for a price, of course.”

He edges back slightly. “I’m looking for a man with long red hair, glasses, and a half-mask on his face. Do you know someone who might know him?”

She taps a finger against her lips. Allen can’t help but notice that her lips are _very_ full and _very_ red. He gulps and shifts his gaze away. “A man with long red hair and a mask…oh yes, I think I remember someone like that a couple years ago. Hard to forget a man like that, he had _extremely_ expensive tastes.” She glances back at Allen. “But as I said, that was a couple years ago.  I don’t think I can help you.”

“Is there anyone who could help me?”

“Well, you might want to talk to the mistress of the house; I think she knows him. Do you want me to show you the way?”

“Yes, please.”

 

The mistress of the house is a buxom woman who introduces herself as Chris, one of Cross’s supporters. When he mentions the Fourteenth, she takes a long pull on her cigarette. As she speaks, smoke blows out of her mouth. “Sorry, can’t help you, kid.”

Something in her tone strikes him as odd. He asks, “’Can’t help you’ as in ‘I know nothing about the Fourteenth’ or ‘I want to stay away from the subject as much as possible’?”

A smirk twists her painted lips. “You’re smarter than he said you were.”

 _Cross, you jerk,_ Allen thinks. “One learns to be smart when with Master,” he says with his most charming smile.

Chris sees right through him. “Don’t try your charms with me, boy. Now, about the Fourteenth, all I know is that he was a Noah wasn’t with the other Noah for some reason. Cross knew him. And that’s all I _want_ to know.”

Allen sighs. “Thank you for all your help.” He stands to leave.

As he turns and walks out the door, he can hear Chris snort behind him. “And so polite about it too.”

 

“ _You!_ ” the level two screeches at him. It lunges forward, swinging a sword-like appendage wildly. Allen dances back, then swings his own sword forward. The akuma’s sword-limb snaps off. It screams and tries to attack again.

He is too fast for it. He jumps and drives the sword down.

As it explodes, he lands. The shockwave throws him off balance and his ankle twists under him. He hobbles away, grumbling.

_It’s been a while since I’ve hurt myself through clumsiness._

 

His Innocence goes out of whack again. Allen curses and hides in an alley. He can’t run for a little while – his ankle is still sore from when he twisted it yesterday. He casts around the alley for something he can use as a brace. There are wooden slats from some broken crates, but that’s it. There’s nothing to tie them with.

Footsteps, breath, a gasp – Allen looks up to see a little girl peek into the alleyway. “Are you an angel?” she asks.

His eyebrows draw together ( _where did you get that idea?_ ) but he glances at his Innocence arm, which is currently not behaving like an arm. Instead it is ethereal, feathery.

_Well, that makes more sense._

He raises a finger to his lips and smiles. She cocks her head. He moves the finger to her lips and she smiles too. She raises a finger to her lips as well.

“Shh…?” she whispers, grinning.

Allen wonders if she thinks that this is a game. _Cat and mouse_ , he decides wryly.

_And the mouse better run._

An idea strikes him. He motions to her headband. She cocks her head again and he makes another motions. She understands; the little girl takes off her headband and hands it to him. He bows to her gratefully and she giggles.

It takes him a minute to uses the headband and wooden slats to brace his ankle. And then he is off and running.

 

Allen feels like he lives most in those moments when he is dodging an akuma’s gunfire. Adrenaline courses through him and the world is electric.

He slashes the akuma in half with his sword and it explodes. Poison gas fills the air. He breathes it in. There is something about the smell of a level one’s poison gas. There is the same attraction-repulsion about the gas as there is about cigarette smoke.

He is reminded of Cross: _the room is hazy with the smoke of cigarettes and the smell of alcohol. There is a serious expression on his face that Allen doesn’t quite find familiar and yet remembers. “Hey.” Cross’s voice is rough. “Are you sure about this? It’s pretty risky…”_

_Some part of him wants to laugh at the absurdity of Cross debating the risks of anything._

Timcanpy bites his ear. He yelps, then nods. Allen takes another breath and leaves in search of fresh air.

 

 _It would be quite a nice hotel,_ Allen decides. _If it weren’t for the mirrors._

He stands in front of one of the aforementioned mirrors, tying his necktie into its customary bow. It’s such a practiced action that he doesn’t even need to watch what he’s doing. If it weren’t for the muscle memory, he’d be in big trouble.

“It sucks, Tim,” he complains. Timcanpy flits over to knock against his head. He’s grateful for the golem’s presence, but it doesn’t change the problem.

He can barely see himself in the mirror.

It’s the damn shadow of the Fourteenth that’s blocking his reflection. Sure, he can glimpse some of the movement of his hands, but it’s murky, like he’s trying to see into the Thames.

And he can’t see his face at all.

 

A circus rolls into town a day after Allen arrives. He goes to watch them set up, Timcanpy hiding under his jacket. He sees a young boy struggling to lift a couple crates, so he lifts them from the boy’s skinny arms. He smiles at the boy, who is staring at him with an open mouth. “Now, where do these go?”

The boy stares at him for a moment more before realizing his mouth is open. The mouth shuts with a snap. He points to a burgeoning mountain of crates. Allen follows the boy’s nonverbal directions with a nod.

As he sets down the crates, a voice shouts from behind, “Oi! You! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Oh, I was just  helping this boy here.”

“Roach? Did you ask this guy to help you?” The boy, Roach apparently, shakes his head emphatically. “If you did, you little brat, so help me I will – ”

Allen intercedes by stepping between the cowering boy and the threatening man. He hates men like this; they leave a bitter taste in his mouth. _Cosimo and blood and glass and fear drenching him like urine –_

“No, I decided to help of my own accord. Is your circus hiring?”

It’s not like he has any delusions of being Mana for this boy, but if he can stave off a few beatings…

The man gives him a harsh look. “We have enough clowns, thanks.”

 

Allen is wrapped up in the middle of a card game, so when his eye activates, it causes the people around him to shriek.

“What the hell are you? Devil?”

Allen wants to laugh, but all he does is whisper, “Not as far from it as I would like.”

He doesn’t even get a chance to grab the cash he won as they run him out. He doesn’t mind much; it’s not like there is a shortage of gamblers in this town. Besides, they haven’t heard of him yet. He’s still new to this town.

But even more so, he wants _(needs)_ to get to the akuma as quickly as possible. His eye directs him to a place just out of town. Allen runs faster. It isn’t far, but still…

He is too late. Allen arrives to see the smoking remains of the circus and an akuma floating above it all, laughing. It’s laughter is high and shrill and curling, like acrid smoke.

Allen is silent as he activates his Innocence. He is silent as he breaks the akuma with his claws. He is silent as it explodes, is silent as he lands.

Just a petty level one and yet able to destroy so much.

Allen finds the boy just in time to seem him shake and whimper, just in time to see the black stars multiply. The boy shatters. _Well,_ Allen thinks. _At least there is no one to care enough to turn him into an akuma. He’s safe._

Just a petty level one…

And Allen smiles, because that is what he does.

 

As he picks his way through the empty clothes and shrapnel, Allen gets an idea.

“It would just go to waste otherwise,” he tells Timcanpy, who hovers above his shoulder worriedly. “And after this mess, I’ll have to skip town anyway.” Timcanpy doesn’t look any less worried, but since he doesn’t seem _disapproving_ exactly, Allen figures he can go ahead with his plan.

 

On the road to the next town, Allen notices that that the suitcase’s handle is about to come off. “Darn it,” he mutters.

He had even taken the time to pick out the best suitcase from the rubble, but his choices had been shabby and shabbier. He chose this one because it was large enough to fit all the clowning equipment he needed.

“I’ll just make enough money in the next town so I can buy a better suitcase. Think that’ll be good, Tim?”

 

It doesn’t take much concentration to cheat. Allen slips cards down his sleeves, smiles, and plays. Meanwhile, he calculates about how long he can stay in this town – well, it’s a city, really. Judging by the bulging of veins and growing ruddiness of the man across from him, Allen decides that the rest of the time spent in this city should be spent trying to stay with his head down low.

Allen nods to himself as the man across the table throws down his cards and roars, “You little cheat! Men! Get him!”

He gathers his cards and cash and _runs_.

 

As he finishes packing his clowning equipment into his new suitcase, Allen says to Timcanpy, “I think I really need to work on not pissing off mafia bosses, huh?”

 

It’s been a long time – _years_ – since Allen has painted his face and performed. He is playing neither whiteface nor auguste, but rather both. He is the strange serious beauty of the whiteface. He is the joker who cannot follow authority of the auguste.

As he juggles, Allen relaxes. It was hard at first to come out and set up, but now there are all these people smilingand laughing. And it’s all because of _him._

As he pauses to collect money in a top hat reminiscent of Mana, there is a familiar face. This time it isn’t his imagination: Johnny.

_Johnny?!_

He’s fumbling as usual, trying to pull out money for the clown whom he doesn’t recognize. Even worse, when Johnny realizes that he has lost his wallet, he cries out and _Kanda appears_.

Allen wonders if he should pull a runner.

But no, too many people. Dammit.

He tunes into his former comrades’ conversation again: “…money’s gone, we can’t find Allen!”

Oh.

_Oh._

 

“I’m sorry that I’ve shown you such a dreadful performance.”

 

“I’m sorry. Be careful.”

 

_Everything has begun once again. Time has resumed._

 “I’m sorry.”

And he smiles.


End file.
